A Divided Inheritance

by Deborah Swift

  ‘Without the beneficence of men like Señor Alvarez, La Sangre would not exist,’ Josefa said, ignoring her discomfort. ‘The rich men of the city give us alms to carry out our work here.’

  ‘No.’ He had overheard and called out, ‘Without the sisters’ charity nothing at all would be possible.’

  He kept Elspet there for about a half-hour, but it passed by in a blur. She followed Sister Josefa and Señor Alvarez round the vast wards of patients. Everywhere hung the stench of blood, urine and the opium poppy, so much so that she longed for a bag of lavender to press to her nose. But she could not fail to be impressed by the sheer vigour of Sister Josefa’s tireless ministrations – the bloodletting, the wiping of face and body, the ability to sit next to a woman who no longer resembled a woman, with her hair and teeth all gone, and still to smile and jest with her, pressing her hand in hers.

  When they finally came out into the light of the courtyard and she looked back at the grand façade of the building, she was reeling so much she had to sit on a wall at the edge of the road. The scale of the suffering behind those walls awed her.

  ‘She is a saint,’ she managed.

  Señor Alvarez passed her a flagon. ‘She is. A woman becomes like her only because she wishes to be closer to God. The men of Seville respect her, and uphold her.’

  ‘Do all the sisters at her convent do this?’ She drank a draught and felt the clean liquid swill her mouth.

  ‘No, she has no convent. She is a beata. She has vowed chastity and to keep herself only for God’s service. She can come and go in the world as you can, but she owns nothing. She survives on alms and on God’s grace.’

  Elspet comprehended immediately and was humbled. Here she was, wondering whether she could bear to part with her gowns, idling in camphor in their trunks, whereas this woman had nothing – not even a pair of shoes.

  ‘They call her the Barefoot Beata,’ he said quietly, as if he had read her thoughts.

  ‘I have understood well,’ she said to him, standing up. ‘It was a good lesson. I will sell my clothes and make sure Martha is paid, as she deserves to be.’

  ‘Good.’ He smiled at her, and his eyes danced with light. ‘You have a fine heart, mistress,’ he said, ‘one that will serve like Josefa’s given the right moment.’

  She did not know what to say to this, but a warmth spread inside her. She looked down and saw the yellow dust under her feet, and a small green weed struggling to push its way up through the cracked ground. His presence heightened her senses somehow, as if he had woken her up from a deep sleep.

  As they walked back towards the training yard side by side, she pondered about the sister, Josefa. A woman like herself, yet unencumbered by social rules or by her status as a woman. Elspet admired her, yet she was not sure she had the courage to be someone like her.

  Señor Alvarez halted abruptly at the city gate and hailed a sedan. She was surprised, as she expected to walk, particularly as the sedan was expensive.

  He handed the bearers some coins. ‘Go now,’ he said to her, ‘without delay – whilst it is fresh in your mind. Go and seek out what you can sell, and pay Martha. Then you may come back to the school. If you wait, the fire will go from your action.’

  ‘Yes, señor. And thank you.’

  ‘It is nothing. Instruct the bearers, then. There is no time to lose.’

  In the cool dark of her room she rang the bell, and Gaxa came. ‘I want to sell these things,’ she said, pointing at the trunks under the bed. Gaxa’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. ‘Can you arrange for someone to call and view?’

  Gaxa nodded.

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Don’t know about today.’

  ‘Well, just see. I’d like to do it today, if I can. I’ll wait.’

  Gaxa padded away on bare feet. How was it she had only just noticed them? Elspet looked down at her sandals, and pulled out her boots from under the bed and put them to one side. Her dark blue dress was almost white at the hem with dust. She untied it and stepped out of it, then shrugged out of the sleeveless embroidered doublet too, until she stood in her shift. She had mourned enough. The hospital had made her grateful for life, for the health and strength of her body.

  She scraped the first travelling trunk out from under the bed and fingered the contents. She would keep these – the flannel petticoats and lawn shifts, and the yellow carsey skirt which was rough as oatmeal, with its square-necked bodice. She kept only one other serviceable gown of walnut brown, smoothing it out on to the bed. Were two gowns too many? She could not decide. She put aside all the underpinnings – the rowles and the buckram stomacher.

  Then she put on the ugly carsey skirt and laced up the bodice.

  She held the other gowns in her arms a long while, reluctant to part with her silks and her Norwich satins, worn and faded though they were. She ran her fingers along the fine lace trim on the front panel of her old favourite, the rose-pink that used to belong to her mother, which she had sewn for her outing to the theatre with Hugh Bradstone. How far away that life seemed now. She had thought she was heartbroken, but no, she thought, she felt no affection for Hugh any more. It had simply been her pride that was injured.

  She folded the gown, marvelled at the lace that had travelled so far just to be a decoration for her vanity. Her thoughts ran to Señor Alvarez. She recognized the shiver of anticipation at the thought of him, and realized she was more than a little attracted to him. She dismissed it with a shake of the head. It was only natural to feel a degree of attraction for such a teacher. It did not mean anything.

  But if she sold her gowns, then how would she look fetching when she went to the fencing school? She wanted to look attractive for Señor Alvarez, she realized. The thought made her laugh. Unless she sold her gowns, she could not go back there.

  She could not rid herself of the image of the Barefoot Beata, and the palatial surroundings that masked the grim stench of the hospital. Señor Alvarez was right, she was weakening. She must strike now, whilst there was still some heat left in the iron. She stuffed the fine silks hurriedly back into the trunk and banged down the lid as if closing the lid on temptation itself.

  It was not long before Gaxa returned and informed her a merchant had arrived in the lobby below, and that Martha was waiting on him. Elspet went down to greet him, and saw a short, square, pig-eyed man with what was obviously his son hanging behind him. Martha and Gaxa carried the trunk down between them and dropped it down at his feet.

  She asked Martha to show him the gowns and the shoes, fearful she might change her mind. ‘Is she going to buy new gowns?’ Martha whispered to Gaxa, frowning, obviously thinking of her owed wages. Gaxa shook her head, indicating she did not understand.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Elspet said loudly, to show her she had heard. Martha bowed her head and bit her lip.

  Martha threw out the tawny Norwich silk for the merchant’s inspection. He felt the hem, turned the bodice, pulled at the trim.

  ‘Five reales.’

  The stooping boy behind him concealed a slight smile, so she knew this was a low offer.

  She bargained with him until he shook his head and then, tired of it, she said, ‘How much for them all?’

  He dragged out her fine-tailored doublets and gowns and held them up to his nose as if to inspect their cleanliness, an act she found deeply offensive. Then he named a ridiculously low figure, but it would be enough to pay Martha’s wages.

  ‘Fine,’ she said.

  ‘Beg pardon, mistress, but are you sure?’ Martha obviously thought she had lost her wits. ‘You can’t even buy a pair of fustian bodyes for that.’

  ‘On second thoughts,’ Elspet said, ‘I will keep these.’ She gathered up the rose-coloured silk bodice and tie-on sleeves, the lace trimmed overskirt, and the hooped farthingale.

  ‘The same price, but one gown less.’ Martha looked relieved.

  The merchant was more reluctant, but finally, when she offered him the trunk that contained them too, he prise
d open his purse and counted out the money. The son watched the whole transaction with greedy eyes.

  Elspet waited as they lifted up the trunk, but she could not bear to watch them lug it out of the door. When they’d gone, she called Martha, the money still in her hand. ‘Your wages,’ she said, holding it out on her palm.

  Martha glanced at Gaxa, and then back to Elspet, her expression doubtful.

  ‘Go on, take it,’ Elspet said, ‘it is only what you are owed.’

  ‘But mistress . . .?’

  Elspet thrust the money into Martha’s hand and closed the maid’s fingers around it.

  ‘Thank you kindly, mistress . . .’ Martha began to back away.

  ‘And these.’ Elspet scooped up the rose silk and the farthingale in one swift movement and bundled them into Martha’s arms. ‘They are for you. I have no need of them any more.’

  Martha’s pale face stared back blankly from above the heap of silk; the farthingale dangled limply from one arm.

  ‘You admired them, didn’t you?’ Elspet snapped.

  ‘Yes . . . yes, mistress, of course I did, but—’

  ‘Then they’re yours. They will suit your colouring very well.’ She turned and walked to the door, and as she took the handle to close it, she saw Martha and Gaxa staring incredulously at each other before Martha let the gown slide out from her grasp to drop into a heap before her.

  Chapter 41

  Zachary stood on the balcony of the old empty house and gazed up into the night sky. A thin sickle moon like a thumbnail rested above the black rooftops. There was a smell of damp vegetation drifting from the river, which glittered with the lights of night-time craft. Downriver towards the sea there was a larger cluster of lights from the fleet gathered there. His palms were sweating, although the nights were cooler now. He hoped Luisa would come again, he had thought of nothing else all day. The silky feel of her long plait, the soft warmth of her lips. But she had said the last time that it was awkward for her to come out alone, her father worried.

  The creak of the door alerted him, and he smoothed down his doublet. He was nervous, he realized. He heard the light pat of her feet on the stairs, and suddenly she was in the room.

  ‘Papa thinks I’m with Maria,’ she said breathlessly.

  He held out his arms, all nervousness gone. A sweet smell of frangipani oil came from her hair. She tilted her face so he could kiss her. He wrapped his arms around her and felt the lightness of her ribcage through her thin cotton blouse; such a small cage to hold her beating heart. He felt protective of her, as if he should shield her from the world.

  ‘You smell good,’ he whispered.

  She sniffed his hair, and then brushed his lips with a kiss. ‘So do you, Mr Deane.’

  ‘Luisa, you can’t keep calling me Mr Deane. Not now, when we’re . . . I said before, you can call me Zachary.’

  ‘But I like it. It sounds so, so English. Zachary is hard to say. I like Mr Deane. You will always be Mr Deane to me.’

  He laughed. ‘But it sounds as though you’re my servant. And it’s not even my real name. My mother was Spanish. She was called Magdalena Medina. When she came to England, she found it too cumbersome, and when we went to war with Spain she shortened it to Deane.’

  She swayed back to look at him.

  ‘It’s not your father’s name?’

  ‘No.’ He did not say more. She looked at him closely, and almost spoke, but then changed her mind. He squeezed her hand.

  ‘Medina,’ she said. ‘I have heard my father talk of it. His family came from there. It is one of the largest cities in Araby. Perhaps your mother had some family there, too.’

  ‘But wouldn’t that be a marvellous thing, to find, after all, we are related.’

  ‘No, it would not. Do you think I would do this with my relation?’ she said indignantly, kissing him again. ‘No, you are Mr Deane, the fine Englishman, and that’s all I know.’

  He walked her over to the balcony. He had found an old wooden chair on one of the lower floors and brought it up.

  ‘Look, I brought you a throne, to survey your kingdom.’ He sat on it and pulled her on to his knee, twined his hands round her waist.

  ‘What a night,’ she said, gazing out over the city. ‘Seville looks enchanted on nights like these.’

  ‘Is your father still intent on France?’

  ‘Yes.’ She pulled away. ‘He believes every bit of gossip. He has never been the same, Mama says, since they were forced out of Granada. He thinks it will happen again here, and is making plans with Señor Alvarez to move us all again.’ She sighed. ‘I thought he had agreed to stay. I just want to feel the ground under my feet a little longer. And since Najid came and told us about the expulsion in Denia, Papa’s even worse.’

  ‘What’s happened to your uncle? Is he still with you?’

  ‘No, thank heaven.’ She wound her hand into his. ‘But he’s as bad as Papa. After the shock wore off, he went crazy. He was all fired up with vengeance and now he’s gone to join some other rebels in Cordoba. He’d heard a tale that some of the Morisco people from Denia never got to Oran, but were robbed by the crew and pushed overboard. Mama fears for him, he hardly knows what he is doing. But she couldn’t stop him, he was like a raging bull.’

  Zachary sighed. ‘The rumours worry me. I keep thinking that one day I’ll wake and find you gone.’

  She leaned her head against his chest. ‘Not you too.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried?’

  ‘Only that I keep thinking I must be dreaming you,’ she whispered.

  ‘Does your father know we’ve been meeting?’

  ‘No. I’m not sure he would understand. You are . . . well, my parents would think I do it to hurt them, on purpose. And they have enough problems. But they guess something. Mama looks at me, as though she is searching for an answer.’

  ‘Come here,’ he said, turning her head to kiss her again, ‘let’s give her something to look for.’

  ‘Ten o’clock already,’ said Fabian.

  Etienne Galen looked around. At Don Rodriguez’s yard the great clock in the corner chimed its final bell, and as if on cue, Don Rodriguez appeared to join them, removing his mail gloves and casting them with a thud on to the table. Fabian poured his master a drink.

  ‘Tired?’ Don Rodriguez asked Fabian, indicating one of the other men slumped on to his forearms on the table.

  ‘It’s those leaded shoes,’ Fabian said. ‘My legs were light as a feather when I took them off, I felt I could jump over mountains.’

  ‘So – I rest my case.’ Rodriguez grinned and swigged from his tankard, then wiped the froth from his moustache.

  ‘They do not use those at the school of Alvarez, I can tell you,’ Etienne said.

  ‘Yes, tell me more about what goes on there, I’m curious. Here’s your purse.’ Rodriguez passed Etienne a leather bag rattling with silver.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Like I say, it is no match for your training. They have not much equipment, little armour. The men read geometry and philosophy. Their minds, well, they may be learned, but their bodies – they are weak.’

  ‘But what do they do?’

  ‘There are not enough men to make proper formation, so they drill on what Alvarez calls the swordsman’s seal – the circle and cross. But he has all foreign students, none from Spain. Oh, except one. And a woman is there too.’

  Rodriguez paused, his pewter tankard halfway to his mouth. He put the tankard down. ‘Alvarez must really be on hard times if he has sunk to training a woman. Are you sure? Carranza would never have agreed to that.’

  ‘Yes, a woman is there every day. An Englishwoman, cousin of a student. Pretty.’

  ‘The Frenchman only has eyes for a pretty face,’ Fabian said. ‘Can she fight?’

  ‘Pas un seul petit morceau,’ Etienne said, shaking his head and laughing. ‘What do you think!’

  Rodriguez snorted. ‘So you don’t think Alvarez will be an obstacle for what we have to do?’

>   ‘No, sir. They are too few, and they have no discipline, and no focus. I am sure they are not in training for anything, except perhaps a duel or two. But Alvarez, he is something.’ Etienne let out a low whistling breath. ‘That man moves like water, impossible to scratch him.’

  Don Rodriguez frowned. ‘To the untrained eye he has a modicum of skill, perhaps.’

  Etienne swallowed, realizing he had made a gaffe.

  ‘But his are false methods,’ said Rodriguez. ‘The real Destreza is with Pacheco, and through him to me. There are two aspects to a fighting art; the fighting and the art. Here we concentrate on the meat of it, the fighting, but Alvarez,’ he sneered, ‘he concentrates only on the art.’ He stood up. ‘A rumour reached my ears that Alvarez took in some Moriscos from the barrio near the leather beaters, this is why I ask whether he will be an obstruction to our cause.’

  ‘It’s true. He hides the family of the mathematician, Nicolao Ortega,’ Etienne said.

  ‘Then it would be better to be certain his men will cause us no trouble. Foreign students, you say? Well, perhaps we can persuade Alvarez’s students to go back home. Besides, we do not need two fencing schools in Seville.’

  ‘Surely we can just close the school down, if it is a threat to the expulsion?’ Fabian said, leaning in over the planked table.

  ‘No, not yet. There are no legal grounds until the proclamation for Seville is made. Harbouring these Morisco rebels and foreigners is not an offence unless they are proved to be rejecting the Faith. At least it is not an offence yet. But that will change once the order is given for their expulsion. Then we will act quickly to disarm them. Until that time, we will have to be more circumspect, disrupt their training, make sure they cannot be organized enough to offer resistance. Etienne, can you get us into the school at night?’

  ‘Certainly I can. Alvarez puts a bar on the front gate to the street, but the back, no one takes much notice of that. Two bolts only. The yard is left wholly unguarded. Why, what were you thinking, sir?’